


Freak.

by WinterTheWriter



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Insecure!Sherlock, Self-Loathing, Sherlock - Freeform, as always, needs a hug, trigger warning for self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-03
Updated: 2014-05-03
Packaged: 2018-01-21 17:21:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1558166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterTheWriter/pseuds/WinterTheWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Freak. What a strange word. What an ordinary word. And yet, Sherlock ponders, it is so very fitting for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Freak.

**Author's Note:**

> This is in 3rd person POV, which is how the majority of my fics will be written. I know the first three weren't, but. Oh well. Don't read if you trigger easily/have a weak stomach. Set somewhere in Season 1.

Freak. What a strange word. What an ordinary word. And yet, Sherlock ponders, it is so very fitting for him. That’s all he is, isn't it? The freak of nature, with the freak intelligence and the freaky life. The man too much of a freak for friends, and too much of a freak for people to want to be his friend. He doesn't mind, though. He never does. Except at night. 

At night when he’s alone, and John’s gone to bed, he lets the sociopath façade leave and he cries. He cries for the life he was never meant to have, for friends he will never meet, for dreams he will never fulfill.  
The stars and the black night glare upon his freak form as the freaky emotions overwhelm him. And he never asks for help. He never asks it to stop, because he deserves it. It’s obvious, really. One is only a freak if one is trying to be a freak. Whether it’s subconscious or not, it’s a choice. And so the mighty Sherlock Holmes breaks down in silence, and sometimes in the refuge of his bathroom, he finds solace in his knife. 

Sometimes he lets the sharp, unforgiving blade glide along his wrist, allowing the crimson to spill upon the floor like a gruesome painting. He lets himself smile at the pain rather than grimace, for the knife has a way of making even the freakiest of things so ordinary. Everyone bleeds. Everyone gets cut once in a while. And so he does it so that in that moment he is not a freak, but he is. He always is.

It doesn’t upset him anymore. He’s learned to not only accept it, but embrace it. 

Freak. What a strange word. What a perfect word for him.


End file.
